Just Like Old Times
by GreenYoda987
Summary: If I'm being honest, I hadn't expected this to work. But it had, even if it wasn't easy. Now I'm lying awake with her in my arms, staring at the stars passing overhead, wondering if I will ever be able to give her everything she needs and deserves - if I can make her happy. But I'm going to try. GarrusxShepard, post-Collector base ME2, rated M for adult themes. (Part of a series.)


**Hello all! I'm so very sorry for not updating anything or writing anything in ages - life just really caught up with me. But I'm trying to get back into writing, once again! This is just a little one-shot, from Garrus's point of view, about him and Shepard. It's my first attempt to write in first person, so be gentle with me if you find any errors (but please, let me know)! And, let me know what you think! I have to admit, I really like this story. And I really hope that you guys like it as well! Thanks again for reading!**

**Also, a huge thank you to Sereneffect! She's seriously the best and is always on top of edits for me, whenever I need them! I love her to death!**

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One of my spurs is digging painfully into the too-soft mattress I'm lying on, while my other leg is hanging awkwardly off the side; my fringe is jammed uncomfortably against the wall behind her bed, despite her attempts to cushion my head with all of her _many _pillows; and, for the second time in my life – the first, a couple day cycles earlier in this same room, on this same bed – my cowl feels cumbersome and awkward rather than protective. It's in the way.

I've never really understood why the rest of the galaxy views my species as pointy and bulky, or sharp and hard, but it is rapidly becoming apparent. To me, my body is normal. It's the rest of the species out there that are too soft and too round and just look… delicate. But, my species… Plates and cowls and leathery hide is normal and meant to protect us from the radiation on Palaven; sharp teeth that are built for tearing into meat is nothing to be shocked by; long talons are useful in hand-to-hand – though, they do occasionally get in the way of maintaining rifles which is why I usually keep mine blunted and filed.

But now, lying on this bed while multiple parts of my body are losing circulation, my legs and one arm slowing going numb… Now, all these parts of my body that I had learned meant "turian", all these parts that defined my species –defined _myself _– seem to just be another obstacle. With her small, warm figure curling into my side, her head resting awkwardly on my bicep rather than my chest as it apparently should be – as she'd said, _"she'd be damned if something as small as a little hump prevented her from basking in the afterglow," _– and her breath ghosting over the softer hide covering my ribcage, I feel so out of my element. I don't know how to move to make her comfortable; I don't know what she even expects out of this thing she calls "cuddling". For a few minutes, I almost wish that I wasn't turian. I almost wish I was human so I could give her everything she wants, everything she actually needs.

Everything she deserves.

She always has to fight – for everything. I doubt that anything has ever come easily to her. And now, I'm just another aspect of her life that isn't easy. She deserves easy, for once.

It isn't that _we _are impossible or that it doesn't work – it had, surprisingly, worked _very _well. Almost too well. I had to actually close my eyes a few times, thinking about anything other than the feel of her clinching around me as her ankles locked behind my back and she pulled me fully into her; anything other than the way her too many fingers gently massaged the base of my skull, her blunt nails scratching lightly between my plates; anything other than the way her lips parted and a breathy moan of _my name _escaped her throat when I gripped her hips and changed the angle, hitting her at her deepest point.

It had gone very well.

But it still hadn't been easy. We had to work for it.

If I am being honest with myself, I hadn't expected any of this to work at all, no matter how much "research" I'd made sure to do in preparation. But it had. I was unsure at first – maybe even a little nervous which was _not _the impression I wanted to give her on our first night together – whether or not any of this would be doable. Her waist was too thick, her red hair-fringe was too malleable and didn't have any feeling in it, and she had too many fingers with no talons. She didn't have plates. She didn't have mandibles. She didn't _smell _like any female I had ever been with. She didn't even have subharmonics. How was I supposed to even tell if she was interested? Sure, she had said she was interested; but there is a big difference between being mentally and, maybe even – if I'm hoping – emotionally invested in a cross-species liaison, and then actually being physically interested in someone that evolved on a different world, under a different sun, with a different _physiology_. None of the outward signs of arousal were there because, as my brain helpfully reminded me, _she was not a turian_.

And, even if _she_ was attracted to me, I had worried that I might not be… interested.

Believe me, I was – _am _– interested, but would my body respond to hers, once our clothes were off and all her skin was exposed?

It had turned out to be a non-issue, because I responded to her very quickly.

But that's neither here nor there. The point is that it wasn't easy. _We _weren't easy. A human marine; a turian sniper. A Spectre; an ex-cop. Someone who saved her entire squad with no more than a pistol because they trusted her, they believed in her; someone who got his squad _killed _because _he_ trusted _them_. Even if, eventually, it would be easy for us – just the two of us – to be together, alone in the privacy of her cabin… it wound never be easy outside, in the rest of the galaxy; the differences are too palpable. And she was always in the spot light. She shouldn't have to struggle to keep up a semblance of normalcy for her relationship.

I learned long ago that the galaxy wasn't fair. Good things didn't just come to good people. Good people _earned _decent things after years of hard work, of sacrifice, of compromise. Good people gave everything they could so that life could be better for others.

Shepard is a good person. And she hadn't had a single thing given to her in her entire life. I think, _maybe that's why she's such a good person._ _Because she knows how hard it is._

I'm still staring up at the stars passing overhead, lost in thought about her, when she jerks in her sleep, her face pressing harder into my arm; a soft grunt escapes her throat. I tilt my head to look at her, straining my neck even more, but all that discomfort leaves my mind immediately when I see the furrow of her brow.

I can't even give her a few peaceful hours of sleep.

She needs sleep. It's not a luxury for her, it's a need. It's only been a few days after she blew the damn Collector base to hell and told The Illusive Man to join it. The _Normandy _is still in bad shape, but she wants to do what repairs we can on our own before stopping on Omega to finish them off – at least that's what she said; I'm not convinced Joker didn't put her up to it so he can be more in charge of _his baby's repairs._ I'm not going to complain; it gives me more time with her before she has to report back to the Alliance.

Which is just one more reason she _needs _sleep; one more reason she needs _me_. I don't need this – at least, not in the way that she does. I don't need my arm pinned beneath her small, warm, much too soft and delicate form; I don't need her weird, red fringe tickling the skin on my neck and making my fingers twitch every minute or two, itching to scratch at the prickly feeling; I don't need all this soft bedding material that is tangled around every area of my body yet seems incapable of keeping me at any reasonable temperature. It's freezing in here.

But it's not about me. It's never been about me. It's about her. And everything I can give her, even if it's not enough. It won't ever be enough, because she's _Commander Shepard _and I'm just _Garrus Vakarian: ex-cop, squadless vigilante gang leader, broken and beaten ex-turian military sniper with half a face. _But I have to try.

I don't know when I began to feel like this. There wasn't one moment in particular that I could pin it on and blame. It was more of a slow fall, I guess. Each mission bringing us a little closer.

No – bringing me a little closer to her.

Every bullet that barely missed her femoral artery and every lick of flame that just grazed the side of her neck had pulled me in; each one, a harsh reminder of just how close I come to losing her on a daily basis.

Losing her again.

I can't lose her again.

It's with her mouth pressed into a thin line, her brow furrowed, her bottom lip trembling a bit, while her knees are pressing uncomfortable into my waist and her fingers lightly grasping at my cowl, that I realize all of this. Rather suddenly.

So… maybe… not so much a slow fall.

It's not about me. Not about what I want or need or even dare to hope for. It's about what I can give her. It's about everything I want to give her. Because if I don't give her everything I have left to give – whatever little that is left of me... If I don't find some way to make her happy… If she's not happy, I don't have a chance at being happy.

I guess I do need this.

But wanting something, even needing something, doesn't tell a person how to obtain that specific something.

And I still can't think of what to do to make the frown line that's marring her scarred, speckled forehead go away. I pull her in, doing the only thing that seems reasonable considering what "cuddling" is supposed to entail; my hand gently slides up the still bare, too-smooth skin on her lower back before coming to rest on her hip, tugging her close, and my thumb grazes the jut of her hipbone. I try – and fail – not to think about how perfectly those bones felt in my hands just a few hours before, as she rolled her hips, moving on top of me and around me, dropping down before rising up and pulling almost all the way off, giving me a _phenomenal _view of…

She twitches when my talons press a little too hard into her skin which immediately refocuses my attention. I groan; I shouldn't be thinking about her hips and waist and – _Dammit, Vakarian_.

But it's too late. Her brow furrows even more and she scrunches her nose up in that strange human way as she swallows heavily, before licking her dried lips. Her eyes crack open. The light from the aquarium is emphasizing every curve, every strange angle, every scar and blemish that I should not find attractive, but I do. She's quickly becoming the most beautiful person I've ever met.

I'm staring, I realize.

She looks up at me, hazy and blinking, like she's trying to reform the memories from last night – memories that are still fresh in my mind – and she gives me a small smile when she raises her head off my arm. Her smile is almost… _shy?_

This wasn't Commander Shepard.

This was Jane. The woman.

My best friend.

The woman I'm trying to pretend I'm not already in love with. Because there is no way she feels the same.

"Morning," she whispers, the creases around her eyes getting deeper as her smile widens into a small grin.

"Morning," I respond stiffly, my voice not matching the emotions that are welling up in me. Why is it that those small lines – what did she call them, _grow__sfeet?_ – are making me want to press her to the bed and just stare at her until I memorize every blemish – _frockle? freckle?_ – on her face; learn all of the small, trivial – but not insignificant – traits that make up who she is; take in all of her qualities that I didn't have a chance to appreciate last time? To me, it's the scars, the so-called "imperfections" that make her who she is; that make her beautiful.

I'm still staring.

She grins more and licks her lips, pushing up on her elbow to hover a little higher over me. "Like what you see, Vakarian?"

I know my mandibles must have flared a little at that – Spirits, _like _was an understatement – because she smirked and shifted her legs until she was straddling me, her knees on either side of my waist; the solid pressure of her core pressing down on my groin plates was a little distracting. I think I might have even growled, my hand instinctively squeezing her hip, when she shifted, but I'm not positive about anything else I did or what I must have looked like doing it because she _blushed _which completely threw me off. She rarely blushes. I've only seen her blush a handful of times in the past two and a half years; most of those had been my doing.

While I'm pleased – immensely pleased – that I am one of the few that can get her to let her guard down, I'm still not sure what to make of her blushing. I can't even figure out all of her facial expressions; now I have to make sense of _blushing _as well. Each one seems to mean something different: anger, embarrassment, nervousness, arousal, and even passion. But which emotion caused that striking flush to spread from her cheeks down to her neck and over the expanse of her chest?

I desperately want to believe that this particular blush – matching the smirk plastered on her face – was due to our particular… positioning. But how am I supposed to know? Again, my brain chooses then to remind me that she's very much _not turian _and I have no way of truly understanding what she's thinking. What she's feeling. What if it's not passion or arousal that's causing the flush in her cheeks? What if it's something else? Spirits, even nervousness wouldn't hurt as much as embarrassment.

But what would she be embarrassed about? This isn't the first time we've woken up together; it's not the first time I've seen her naked, not the first time I've seen her half-asleep, and not the first time I've had her on my lap. As she had so confidently mentioned that first night, we are both adults; we are friends who have a mutual interest in _easing tension_. There shouldn't be any awkwardness about the intercourse – no matter how strange the sex had been at first – and there definitely shouldn't be any embarrassment over… us. No matter how far this thing went, there shouldn't ever be any uncomfortableness between us. _If_ this ever went farther than "stress-relief".

I want it to go farther.

But I have no idea what she wants. We haven't talked about it. I haven't even thought about asking her because I refuse to even admit how far I'm gone – how ruined I am for anyone else – to myself. I've been dancing around that thought all morning, refusing to let my musings get to close to the idea that this means more to me than it does to her.

But I know it does; I might not allow myself to think the words – let alone _say _them – but I know. But I won't – I _can't_ – let myself hope that she might eventually feel the same. Hope doesn't get anyone anywhere in this galaxy; all it gets you is heartache and disappointment.

Besides, this isn't about what I want. It's about what I can give her. And right now, she needs me to help her believe that everything will be okay, that I'll be here for her always, and that no matter what happens, I will always have her back.

It's at this point, when my eyes refocus on her face, that I realize I've been quiet too long. She's frowning, tilting her head and looking at me a little closer.

"Garrus? What's wrong?"

I know I need to say something; but I still can't find any words because I'm trapped between desire and concern.

Her lips quirk up a little at the corners, a small smile sneaking through as her eyes soften.

"I've never known you to be at a loss for words…" she whispers.

She's joking. Most likely to ease any perceived awkwardness.

I _need_ to say something. And I do. But, like always, my mouth answers her statement before my mind even has time to process the words I'm saying.

"We're very different."

It's the wrong thing to say. Her face falls completely. And once again, it's _one more thing I can't give her, one more thing that didn't go right. _

She looks at me and I have to clinch my teeth together to keep from shutting my eyes. She's disappointed and upset and it's my fault.

"Is that…?" she starts, reaching a hand out cautiously to stroke my mandible, her fingers just barely grazing the plating. "We're not that different." As her fingertips trace my markings, my eyes travel to her jawline – there is not even a trace of a mandible – and I have to stifle a sarcastic laugh at the observation; we are as different as two things can be.

But she doesn't need my sarcasm and she doesn't need my pessimism. She needs my support – no matter what form that support takes.

So this time, I make myself wait before I respond; I can't let my mouth say something before I make sure it's the right thing to say. I can't risk messing this up; can't risk losing her. Which, of course, turns out to be the exact wrong thing to do because she pulls back, moves off of me and rolls on to her side, propping herself up on her elbow again. She's barely touching me anymore. I can see the beginnings of her Commander mask, and I don't want to lose Jane to Commander Shepard.

"If it's too much, Garrus, just tell me. It's okay. You can't mess this up – _us_ – our friendship. No matter what."

The small motion she makes with her hand when she says "us", her finger flexing towards my body and then hers, seems so hesitant, so uncertain.

My heart does a strange leap in my chest while at the same time, a heaviness seems to settle in my stomach; maybe she does want this. But even if she does, I'm clearly not doing or saying the right things because she's trying to reassure me that everything will be alright. That's not right. I'm supposed to be comforting her. Not the other way around.

But I can't shake the thoughts I've been mulling over all night and into the morning; we_ are_ very different. It was so complicated that first time and only slightly easier last night. And it wasn't ever going to be normal or natural for us.

And, _Spirits_… what if the differences eventually pull us apart? What if someone else, someone more… familiar, comes back into her life? An L2 Alliance lieutenant who had spent nearly every night talking to her outside her cabin for the majority of a year while I had been too timid, too in awe of _Commander Shepard _to attempt anything other than casual, pre-mission debriefs with her? Shepard was the epitome of loyal, but I wouldn't ever fault her for wanting something easy. Someone easy.

Besides, at this point with us… is there anything for her to be loyal _to_?

Once again, I know it's been too long since I've said anything because she whispers my name, concern obvious in her voice. I refocus my eyes on her green ones. She's searching for something in my eyes, something in the lines of my face.

Maybe I should just tell her. She's always been honest with me, never hidden anything from me; she's always told me how she feels. She deserves the same from me. Especially now. If she trusts me enough to let her guard down, to be herself, I should trust her enough to tell her the truth. I _do _trust her enough.

So I tell her. I tell her everything.

I tell her how she's so different than me, how it scares me to be with her because I'm afraid of hurting her; how I can't imagine losing her again and it terrifies me so much more that it has any right to; how she deserves something more than what I can give her, someone _better _than me – how she's so much more than I can ever hope to be; how I look up to her and how she deserves someone that pushes her to be her best, who doesn't hold her back; how she deserves something to be given to her – how she shouldn't have to work for everything; how someone should take care of her for once. And I'm scared I won't be able to give her that.

"Don't get me wrong, Shepard, I'm, ah… I want to be here. I just… I don't know why you chose me. I can't give you everything someone else… someone… closer to home, can." I use that same phrase again because I can't bring myself to say _a human_, because that's exactly what I've been worrying about all morning.

I sigh and let my head relax back on the pillows – which is still not comfortable by a long shot, but it's better than straining my neck to look at her; my eyes focus on the stars passing overhead again and the subtle blue tint of the mass effect field surrounding the ship. Why is finding the words so hard? This is Shepard. My best friend; the woman I confided in about what happened with the Saleon case, what happened on Omega, and what happened with Sidonis. _No one _else knows the extent of those stories. She does. I told her. I poured my soul out to her because I knew she would always listen and never once judge me; she might disagree, but she would never judge me. I trust her implicitly. With my life. So why is it so hard to talk to her about how I feel? About her? I want to be here, with her, more than anything I've ever wanted, but I can't seem to find those words.

"It's not that I'm not thrilled, Shepard – I am. But you deserve to be happy; you should have someone who takes care of you for once."

Spirits, those might be the hardest words I've ever said. I keep my eyes locked on the viewport above her bed, not strong enough to even chance a look at her. _How did a turian like me get a girl like her? How did I even get a chance?_

I almost forget how to breathe when she speaks.

"And who says you're not taking care of me?"

I jerk my head in her direction, which sends a shot of pain through my fringe, but I don't even care when I lock eyes with her. She's serious. And I have no idea what to say to that.

"I think that's a record," she whispers gently, smiling to make everything a little less serious; just like her.

She grins a little more, her green eyes flashing between my blue ones, and pulls herself in a little closer. I watch her carefully, not daring to do anything more than just put my arm around her waist when she throws her leg over my hips again; even that was more instinctual than conscious. But she loops one arm around my neck between my head and the pillows, fingers gently grazing at the plates trailing down the back of my neck as she brings her forehead to mine, pressing against me gently.

"Garrus, there is nothing else I want. I meant it when I said I want you."

My brain can't seem to process what she's saying and I'm too scared to dare to hope; but my hands seem to be taking on a mind of their own because I find my talons trailing gentle lines up and down her back, dipping under the sheets covering her to carefully scratch down to the dimples just above her hips and back up again. She sighs in comfort and relaxes down further, giving me greater access to the expanse of skin. Some small bumps rise up on her biceps and over her shoulders and she shivers slightly. I make a mental note to look up what those tiny bumps might mean since I've now seen them twice: once when I hit a particularly deep spot inside her and now when I'm just scratching her back.

One more difference between our species.

I wouldn't have to look up basic anatomy and physiology with another turian. But I don't mind, because it's _her_. But it still registers in my mind as _just one more difference to add to the list, one more reason this will never work._

"Garrus…" she starts up again, this time sounding a little nervous. "I don't just want a… stress relief thing with you." She smiles shyly, shrugging her shoulders a little. "I guess I'm kind of an all or nothing type of girl."

I feel my mouth open a little at that, shock causing my mandibles to twitch against the side of my face; I hadn't dared to let myself hope she felt anything more than camaraderie between the two of us. Trust, sure, but nothing that would imply the possibility of a _relationship _between me and her.

She smiles a little wider and winks at me. "Don't look so shocked. You should know me better than that. Besides, you're a detective. Aren't you supposed to be good at reading people?"

"No one can read you, Shepard," I deadpan, trying to wrap my head around her _not wanting a stress-relief thing with me_.

She smiles at that and my heart warms a bit because _finally_, I think I did something right; something that made her happy.

"Garrus, you're my closest friend. I don't want anyone else. I don't care that we're different. That doesn't matter to me. _You_ matter to me. And I want you."

What's that human expression? Foot in mouth?

Once again, my mouth says something before my brain even has a chance to think about it. "And that I'm turian, that there are some things I'll never be able to give you, some things I'll never be able to do for you… that doesn't bother you?"

"Would you want me more if I were turian?"

She'd always had that ability: say one small thing – just a simple statement – that put everything in perspective. It didn't just work on mercs though; apparently, it also worked on me. The answer was simple: no, I wouldn't want her more if she were my own species; I couldn't possibly want her more than I want her now, exactly how she is, soft and human and so strange and different.

"No. But you're Shepard," I say, like her being Jane Shepard makes it somehow different.

"And you're Vakarian. It's us Garrus. Just like old-times. Shepard and Vakarian. Just a lot more reach and a little more flexibility," she says as she leans forward again, pressing her forehead against mine. I smile more broadly this time, totally fine with her teasing because it means she is _happy, _my mandibles flaring as my hands trail further down her body, grabbing the soft flesh of her rear; she squirms and laughs a little at that and the warmth I see reflecting in her eyes makes my heart stutter slightly.

_Just like old times. _

She bends over and kisses me and I take the advantage and roll us over, until I'm pressing her down to the bed, my hands trailing up her sides, scratching over her ribs, making her gasp and buck her hips up towards my own.

_Shepard and Vakarian. _

That's something I think I can get used to.

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**Let me know what you think! Thanks again for reading! You guys are awesome!**


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